Incision
by Cymoril Avalon
Summary: Every princess needs her prince, but sometimes, when the world turns dark, an unexpected, reluctant savior will step forward and take the mantle. AU.


Disclaimer: I own nothing held herein. I know, it's tragic.

Author's Note: This is something a little different than the typical one-shots I tend to churn out. This is short, disjointed, and a little surreal. The pairing should be fairly obvious. Please, as usual, read and review. I love reviews.

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A twist of fate, a wrong decision, and the world turned upside-down.

She remembered nothing but the sound of twisting metal, the screech of sirens and the screams of pain, and the pinpricks dotting her skin from head to foot. Her memories were filled with the sensation of blood, thick and warm, obscuring her sight, leaving her blind and withdrawn from reality. Only vaguely did she recall the hand clutched in hers, the pulse slowly coming to a stop.

It was a defense mechanism, the doctors claimed. After all, it had been quite the life-changing event. She was just trying to protect her sanity, deal with trauma the only way she really knew how.

But she felt so empty, hiding away in the shadows, avoiding every possible mention of what had happened. She spent months in denial, surviving in her own little world. Because that was all she was doing: surviving. Getting through day by day, hour by hour, focusing on getting herself up in the morning, choking down three meager meals a day, going through the motions of attending class and offering smiles and excuses to the world.

Only in dreams did she recall, and even then, she fled from the memories.

Occasionally, her dreams attempted to spill over into reality, but she stubbornly chased them away and wrapped herself in a comforting fairy tale. One by one, her friends dwindled away, torn by their own grief and incapable of dealing with her strange notions of coping. Few remained, steadfast knights waiting attendance, whispering in her ear and attempting to coax her back to the land of the living.

Until one day, the princess' marble castle crumbled around her, and she was left broken and vulnerable, shaking with her grief. It had been entirely against her will, that little trip that had destroyed all of her carefully laid walls, but he had insisted, and there was no denying anything when his cold blue eyes hardened with a stubbornness he would always pretend didn't exist.

She wanted to return to her fairy tale, immerse herself in stories and colors and escape from a world turned gray, but the stones in front of her refused to allow her to retreat. But she still tried, and when he restrained her, she screamed and cried and called him names before finally calming down, turning almost apathetic eyes back on the tombs sitting so sullenly in the silence.

They must be ashamed of her, she knew, acting like such a child. Humiliation burned steadily, hotter than her guilt, noticing that the last flowers that had been laid were brown and dead. How long had it been? How long as she remained encased in her shell?

Shame turned to anger. She wouldn't be here if it weren't for him, would never have come here to confront what she wanted nothing more than to pretend didn't exist, and had he not come out of the woodwork and bullied her into doing what he wanted, she wouldn't be crying so hard right now, little hands fisted in his expensive shirt, that brief calm having shattered.

He deserved the wet marks staining the fabric. He deserved the occasional sting of nails, the weakly muttered insults. He deserved…

He deserved nothing that she offered, unless it was gratitude. But that would come later, after she had begun healing. The wound had been brutally torn, the blood fresh, pain even fresher, and she was unprepared for her reactions.

Exhausted, he took her back home, tucking her into bed and smoothing her hair until she fell into a fitful sleep. It was in those moments of quiet that he was able to focus on her breathing, on the sound of her pink kitten clock ticking, and the sound of his own heartbeat. He visibly relaxed, never taking his eyes off of the girl's tear-ravaged features.

At first, he hadn't understood why he had been the one to push forward and put an end to the girl's foolishness. None of her friends had seemed willing to take the necessary steps, so perhaps it had fallen to him because there was no one else.

And maybe, just maybe, it was because he understood.

Though he had been young, he still remembered burying his parents, clinging to his little brother who was all he had left of his family, and vowing to never let any harm come to him. He understood how important the sibling bond was, and knew how hard he would fight to keep Mokuba safe.

He despised crying, a veritable sign of weakness, but even he had to admit that there were occasions when it was necessary. This girl had held off for far too long, allowing her grief to gnaw at her insides, leaving her raw and exposed no matter how she tried to hide. When he saw that no one else was going to help her, he felt obligated.

In the end, it was because he understood, and in those brief moments when he'd first set to completing his task, he'd begun to care. He'd connected with her in a way that he hadn't with anyone else, seeing his own pain mirrored in her amber eyes.

"Shizuka," he murmured, voice slightly hoarse from so many hours of silent vigil. He smoothed her hair again, brushing it away from her face, and when she shifted and murmured in her sleep, he pressed his thumb to her skin and felt her warmth.

"When you wake up, I'll be here."

Why?

He wouldn't admit the reason to himself, let alone anyone else. What mattered was that he was there, and he had no intentions of moving.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to her forehead. "You're not alone."


End file.
